A Place Beyond Courage (4 page)
Her eyes gleamed. ‘I think you’ll find I have more to offer than that, my lord.’
‘Such as?’
She stepped up to him, dipped her forefinger in his wine and slowly rimmed his lips. ‘Experience.’ She trailed her hand languidly down his body from breastbone to groin, her touch lighter than a breath. ‘Skill.’
Lust surged through him, hot and heavy as molten lead. ‘You know the rules; the dues owing.’ He set his arms to her waist and pulled her against him. The supple pressure of her body was exquisite.
‘Oh yes, I know them . . . my lord marshal,’ Damette breathed. ‘You will have no cause for complaint on any score . . . I promise you.’
Languorous in the aftermath of twice-taken release, feeling as if all sharp edges and discontents had been smoothed out, John folded his hands behind his head and studied the rafters. ‘How did you know to call me “my lord”?’ he asked curiously.
‘Because your deputy told me your father was dead . . . I am sorry for that.’ Damette raised herself on one elbow. A rosy flush darkened her breasts and throat, revealing that the pleasure had not been his alone.
He said nothing. She hesitated, then leaned over and cupped his face on the side of her hand. ‘I am not sorry you have his position though.’
The haze of satisfaction cleared from his eyes. ‘It’s no use casting your line in my direction, sweetheart; I’m not a man for taking mistresses. I know too much to be snared by such bait.’
She laughed and bent to kiss the corner of his mouth. ‘You may have the face of a sinning angel and a way between the sheets, but I’m not angling beyond mutual interest. You would demand too much - and so would I.’
‘That’s about the measure of it - especially the last part.’ He stroked her hair to keep the moment light, then sat up and reached for his clothes.
‘You shield yourself from people, don’t you?’
John donned his shirt, rapidly followed by braies and hose. ‘Show me a courtier who doesn’t.’ Padding from the bed, he returned to the trestle and the pile of work still waiting. He was tired, but he had learned to cope without sleep long ago. His father had been wont to say that the time to slumber was in the grave, and John had embraced the philosophy with a whole heart. He looked across at her. ‘I don’t have to shield myself,’ he said. ‘The face I wear is the face beneath.’
She rolled on to her stomach and turned towards him, slender ankles raised and crossed, dark hair spilling around her shoulders. ‘You’d be surprised.’
‘At what?’ He sat down and began work.
‘At what does lie beneath when you are put to the test. Can I stay until morning?’
‘As long as you’re quiet.’
‘I promise not to snore.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’
She made a face at him and John almost laughed, but managed to preserve an offhand demeanour.
Borrowing his comb from the coffer, she began to tidy and braid her hair, completely unselfconscious in her nudity. John occasionally glanced and admired. Firm, full breasts; long legs. Damette wouldn’t stay long among the whores. She would attract another patron soon enough.
She worked at a tangle. ‘I know you do not want me to interrupt you,’ she said, ‘but you might be interested to know I spent two nights with Geoffrey of Anjou.’
John lowered his quill and eyed her sharply.
‘He’s a handsome youth, the Empress’s husband,’ she said. ‘Fast to the finish as you’d expect of his years, but a fresh bolt in the bow as soon as his first one’s spent.’ She gave him an eloquent smile before contemplating the ends of her gathered hair. ‘He says he’s thinking of going on pilgrimage to Compostela and that he won’t have his wife back for all the gold in England.’
‘You’re certain he said that?’
‘Of course I am. He’s still too young to have learned discretion. If a man has finished futtering and does not wish to sleep, then often he wants to talk . . . and I am a very willing listener.’
John shook his head. ‘Henry won’t let him go to Compostela, at least not until this impasse over the marriage has been resolved. He needs his daughter and Geoffrey to beget heirs.’
‘Then perhaps Geoffrey is forcing the King’s hand, or perhaps he is teasing. I gained the impression he’s the kind who likes to throw sticks in the fire for the pleasure of watching them burn.’ She secured her braid with a red silk ribbon.
John gave her a speculative look. ‘You didn’t want to make a bid to become Geoffrey’s mistress then?’
She wrinkled her nose and laughed. ‘Oh no, he’s far too fickle. For the moment he’s a prickly youth who needs stroking and reassurance - although when he grows up, he might be worth it.’
John continued with his work for a while, although his mind was split between the parchments and tallies of the marshal’s accounts and what Damette had said.
‘I could be very useful to you,’ she offered, as if sensing the periphery of his thoughts. ‘Your father always considered that the things I heard and saw were a great asset to him.’
John studied a tally without focusing on it. He realised now how much his father had protected him in keeping him away from Damette when he was Geoffrey of Anjou’s age. ‘Then I too will be happy to consider.’
‘And the fee?’
‘Negotiable.’ He put his head down over his work. She plainly knew just how far to push, for she lay down with her back to him and, pulling the coverlet high over her shoulder, at least feigned sleep.
John poured more wine and toasted her huddled form, his eyes lighting with dour humour. If nothing else, tonight’s interlude had informed him that he was most certainly back at court.
2
Abbey of le Pré, Rouen, Autumn 1130
‘Compostela!’ Matilda, dowager Empress of the Holy Roman Empire, and currently cast-off wife of the seventeen-year-old Count of Anjou, spat the word with angry laughter. ‘Now I know my husband truly is mad!’ The word ‘husband’ was uttered with disgust, as if she had been eating greens and discovered a slug. ‘What’s he going to do there? Pray for Saint James to intercede and grant an annulment to this hellish marriage? Jesu let me add my prayers too!’ Spots of fury brightened her cheekbones and brought a dangerous glitter to her eyes.
Leaning against the wall near the door, his rod of office tucked into his belt, John admired her even while being overjoyed she was not espoused to him. Small wonder her marriage to a youth more than a decade younger and of lesser rank was foundering and sinking as swiftly as the ship that had drowned her brother ten years ago. He had told Robert of Gloucester what Damette had said, and Robert was now telling his sister before he escorted her across the Seine to dine with their father at the Tower of Rouen.
‘He won’t do it.’ Robert looked uneasy. ‘It’s a threat, a whim. He wants to twist the knot a little.’
‘Then let him hang himself with it, I care not.’
‘Geoffrey has a duty even as much as you do yourself. Our father won’t let either of you off the hook, you know that.’
She scowled at her brother, encompassing John with the same look. ‘Do not prate to me of duty. I was eight years old when I left my nursery for my first wedding at my father’s behest. I married Geoffrey of Anjou because my father wished it. Do you think I would have undertaken either match of my own accord? At least the first time I was an empress and I had respect from my husband and his people. This second marriage is a . . . a vile travesty!’
Robert looked uncomfortable. ‘Geoffrey of Anjou will grow up.’
‘Into what?’ she retorted with a curl of her lip and glared contemptuously at John. ‘I suppose you heard the piece about Compostela from one of your whores?’
John bowed his head. ‘Where would the court be for information, madam, without the digging of prostitutes and priests?’ he asked in a bland voice.
Her eyes narrowed and John braced himself for a tirade, but it didn’t come. Instead, she faced her brother. ‘I won’t go back to him, Rob.’
‘Not even if circumstances were different?’
‘This marriage has brought me low enough already,’ she said bitterly. ‘I do not see how circumstances could be different. Geoffrey did the repudiating. Let him do the begging now. If he prefers Compostela and his whores then let him lie in those beds, for he certainly won’t lie in mine.’
Her voice was hard with anger and resentment. John thought that if she pitched it lower and used its music, it would be a devastating weapon rather than a hostile instrument, but he doubted that compromise and softness were in her nature. He admired Matilda for her courage, and knew she was dear to Robert - although perhaps such affection was allied to the amount she would have to rely on her half-brother when she inherited Normandy and England.
Matilda stalked away to her maid to have her cloak arranged and pinned.
‘At least there’s a glimmer of hope,’ John murmured to Robert. ‘She did say “let him do the begging”. That means she’s prepared to reconsider should he make an approach.’
‘You think so?’ Robert looked wry.
‘Geoffrey’s advisers won’t permit him to let Normandy and England slip through his hands, and if it means reconciliation with his wife, then so be it. As you say, he has some growing up to do, but he’s not a fool.’
Robert smiled. ‘More insights from your informant?’
‘It’s not all the gossip of whores,’ John said tautly.
Robert’s smile deepened. ‘I know that. You wouldn’t be my father’s marshal if your wits weren’t as sharp as an awl. The way you weigh up men and situations in my father’s hall is enviable.’
A bleak smile entered John’s eyes. ‘It’s not enviable,’ he said, ‘it’s necessary.’
Raised upon a windswept mound, Salisbury cathedral faced a rolling landscape populated by ancient stone circles and footpaths that had existed time out of mind. A bitter east wind dappled with snow was sweeping across the Downs and the sky over the church of the Blessed Virgin Mary, with its great new east end, was a lowering grey.
A large congregation filled the long nave but the press of bodies did little to warm the atmosphere. Hacking coughs, red, streaming noses, damp sleeves attested that the usual winter diseases and chills were performing their circuit of misery as December advanced further into darkness.
Aline Pipard tucked her frozen hands under her arms and curled and uncurled her toes which were half-numb and half-burning with swollen, red chilblains. Making an effort, she concentrated on the ritual of the mass which Roger, Bishop of Salisbury, was conducting. His presence was something of an event since he was usually dealing with affairs of state and the royal finances, leaving the administration of his flock to subordinates. Rumour ran that investigations at the exchequer had exposed untoward dealings and laxness, and that the Bishop was under a cloud at court, if not exactly in disgrace.
The vapours wisping heavenwards from the censers bore the aroma of frankincense - one of the costly spices brought by the Three Magi to the Christ Child in Bethlehem. Aline’s imagination twirled aloft with the exotic, resinous scent. She imagined herself kneeling in worship at the manger in the stable and being bathed in the holy glow surrounding the Virgin and child.
Hosanna in excelsis. Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Hosanna in excelsis.
Hosanna in excelsis. Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini. Hosanna in excelsis.
Aline adored churches, adored the rituals, the objects, the stories. Even today in the biting cold, she found comfort and solace just by being in God’s house.
Pater noster, qui es in coelis: sanctificetur nomen tuum: adveniat regnum tuum: fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra.
Yesterday, on arriving in Salisbury, she and her mother had learned from Lord Walter the sheriff, that King Henry’s marshal, John FitzGilbert of Hamstead, had officially purchased the right to her wardship and marriage. There had been a letter from FitzGilbert himself, and a gift of a set of prayer beads. They were made of amber and each one glowed like a globule of hard honey. Lighter than glass or stone, they were warm like a residue of summer as she slipped them through her fingers. Aline had been overwhelmed but uncertain what the gift betokened. Was it a symbol of esteem? Did he mean to marry her, or remain her warden? Following the standard salutation at the beginning of the letter, he had promised to care for herself and her interests with all diligence and duty, but the words had been set out in formal language and the beads were the only personal part of his communication.
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem: sed libera nos a malo.
Pater noster, qui es in coelis: sanctificetur nomen tuum: adveniat regnum tuum: fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra.
Yesterday, on arriving in Salisbury, she and her mother had learned from Lord Walter the sheriff, that King Henry’s marshal, John FitzGilbert of Hamstead, had officially purchased the right to her wardship and marriage. There had been a letter from FitzGilbert himself, and a gift of a set of prayer beads. They were made of amber and each one glowed like a globule of hard honey. Lighter than glass or stone, they were warm like a residue of summer as she slipped them through her fingers. Aline had been overwhelmed but uncertain what the gift betokened. Was it a symbol of esteem? Did he mean to marry her, or remain her warden? Following the standard salutation at the beginning of the letter, he had promised to care for herself and her interests with all diligence and duty, but the words had been set out in formal language and the beads were the only personal part of his communication.
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem: sed libera nos a malo.
She had known John FitzGilbert from a distance since she had been a tiny girl at her mother’s knee and he had been an adolescent, accompanying his father to their family on a matter pertaining to the exchequer. She had been struck dumb with shyness before the strangers. The youth’s smile and his coltish good looks had tied her being into knots of wonder and embarrassment. She had seen him intermittently since then and he still had that effect on her. The most recent occasion had been here this summer when he was home from court dealing with his affairs following his father’s death. He had been talking to Sheriff Walter after the mass. No longer a youth, but a grown man, tall, long-limbed and graceful. His hair was warm brown at the nape and sides, but the summer sun had flashed it with white-gold through crown and fringe and the striking looks of his adolescence had held their promise and matured into virile masculine beauty. As if sensing her scrutiny, he had glanced in her direction. Their eyes had met and she had gasped and looked away in flustered discomfiture. She had not dared raise her head lest he was still gazing at her in that stomach-dissolving way. When he turned to leave, she had risked a peek at his retreating back, both relieved and bereft at his going.
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